Everything Happens for a Reason
by Marauder Lupine
Summary: A story told in three parts from Lestrade's perspective about his relationship with Sherlock Holmes. Part one: His first meeting with John Watson in "A Study in Pink," as well as how he came to meet Sherlock. Part two: How Lestrade kept busy during the two years Sherlock was dead. Part three: Follows Lestrade and Sherlock from just after "His Last Vow" and "The Abominable Bride."
1. Chapter 1

**Prompt: Everything happens for a reason. (Not entirely sure this story actually follows the prompt, but it's what got me started writing in the first place, so I kept it.)**

Lestrade meets Sherlock Holmes. Lestrade meets Doctor John Watson.

* * *

He assumed this man was Sherlock's new flatmate. He'd been going on since the beginning of the month about needing to find a flatmate to share the rent. Sherlock wasn't exactly the sort to put out an ad in the local paper. He wondered where he'd found this one.

"Who's this?" he asked.  
"He's with me," Sherlock said.  
"But who is he?" Lestrade asked again, angling his body to speak directly to him.  
"I said he's with me," Sherlock answered sharply. Quickly putting an end to that.

Had they not been on a crime scene with more pressing issues at hand, Lestrade might have rolled his eyes at Sherlock. He was always such a nob about the simplest things. Turning to give the other man a quick once-over, Lestrade saw he looked clean and decent. Properly so. Not just one of Sherlock's usual "associates" then; not one of his homeless network cleaned up and shaved.

Years ago, Sherlock had walked onto Lestrade's crime scene, took a look around, and started spouting off about hair color, and the the type of mud left behind from the murder's boot, and the pile of the carpet the body had been wrapped up in. The case itself was nothing special, just a "wrong place, wrong time," sort of deal, but it would have taken the police days to put all the pieces together. Had this particular murder not have so obviously been linked to the recent string of high-profile robberies in the media, Sherlock wouldn't have bothered at all. But it was, and he knew if he solved this case for them, made them look good when they caught the murderer and his accomplices, he'd have their attention.

So he pointed them in the right direction, and let them bask on their glory at having solved both cases; nice and tidy in just under twenty-four hours. After that, he simply stuck around like a nuisance. Regardless of whether Lestrade had actually wanted or needed his help, for six weeks straight, Sherlock was there at one crime scene or another, telling him he'd missed something, telling him he needed a more competent team, that he was an idiot if he truly thought it was the sister and not the aunt.

He was brilliant, bit of an arse, but brilliant though. Lestrade had to admit. Most of the others had written him off as a punk kid who maybe read too many crime novels and thought he was just coming around to have a laugh at their expense.

That wasn't it, he knew. It wasn't about showing up the police, although the kid certainly had a flare for the dramatics when he wanted to make a show of his deductions. He could use one of those sensitivity courses they had to take a weekend to attend every year, too. Lestrade could see it in his eyes though, the way he never stopped seeing. Sherlock wanted in on his crime scenes because he knew he'd be able to solve it. They were challenges, some more difficult than others, but each case he showed up at was a chance to exercise his talents, his mind. And that was what Lestrade could see he craved more than anything else. A challenge.

The seventh week Sherlock had shown up at a crime scene, it had been three weeks since they'd had anything over what he called six. Whatever that meant. He had arrived in a cab, not entirely unusual, but he'd thrown a wad of bills at the driver and slammed the door behind him when he got out. Immediately, Lestrade's team turned to look at him. Some of them let out a resigned sigh and went back to their work, but most of them had kept staring. Sherlock had started to clap then, rallying them. Rather loudly, he'd said, "What are you staring at? At last, we have a seven! A murder a we can all care about for a change, how wonderful!" He'd been going around, clapping everyone on the shoulder in congratulations. Lestrade had caught the rallying at it's end when he walked out of the building where a young 20-something girl had been found. The team had quickly gone from staring wide-eyed at Sherlock to all suddenly finding their notepads entirely fascinating.

Lestrade walked straight up to Sherlock, grabbed him by the collar of his very expensive looking coat, and dragged him to the other side of the building where he promptly pushed him up against the wall.

"Are you bloody mad? What are you out here cheering about – finding a dead girl, younger than you probably, with her panties torn around her ankles? That cause for celebration to you?" he'd yelled.

Sherlock though, was already in his face, fists clenching and relaxing at his side, by the time he'd finished speaking. "Your lot has already wasted an hour contaminating the crime scene. You might actually stand a chance at catching the murderer in a timely manner with me around. If it hadn't been one of my network who found her and told me, I'd still be out getting-" he'd cut himself off before he could finish his sentence. He very quickly deflated, enough to keep him from saying anything incriminating.

Lestrade wasn't stupid though, contrary to Sherlock's varied quips. One good look at the other man and Lestrade could see how blown his pupils were, how Sherlock could hardly stand still, had made a raucous upon arrival, and now wouldn't meet his eyes.

Feeling Lestrade's intent stare, Sherlock back peddled. "You're right. Awful of me. My apologies. Now, let's see the crime scene then, catch her killer. Put him away for a good, long time, yes?" He spoke quickly, and tried to walk away even faster, but Lestrade pulled him towards their barricade instead of inside.

He spoke just loud enough for just Sherlock to hear him. "My time is better spent here, trying to find that poor girl's killer, than escorting your arse back to the Yard. So you're free to go, Sherlock Holmes. I don't want to see you at my crime scenes anymore. Got it?"

Sherlock looked panicked for a moment, than his face contorted into a mask of anger. "I haven't even looked inside, but I know I could solve it in three days." Lestrade had already walked away, telling the uniforms to keep him away. "It'll take you eight days, Lestrade. You'll come looking for me on the fifth."

It had taken Lestrade ten days, in fact. He regretted not going to Sherlock for help, but he could hardly allow a junkie to come in and take over his case. In the previous weeks, he hadn't noticed any signs that Sherlock was an addict. If he even was one. Maybe he had only just started experimenting with drugs? But no, that didn't seem right. Sherlock had been too cool about being around an entire team of coppers while under the influence. Not his first time. Nor his second, or third.

Lestrade had continually chastised himself for even thinking about Sherlock when he had a murderer to find. His team might have been able to solve it much sooner if he hadn't been so preoccupied with Sherlock Holmes. But, truth be told, he actually liked the younger man.

It was for this reason that exactly two weeks since that day at the crime scene, after the murderer and his gang had been arrested and questioned, after the mountains of paperwork had been filled out in triplicate, Lestrade found himself at the front of Sherlock's flat building.

Taking the stairs a bit slower than he might have normally, he climbed to the third floor, to the furthest door. He knocked. Loudly. He knocked again a few moments later. Still it took a full minute before Sherlock shouted for whoever was still at his door to leave.

"Open the door, Sherlock," Lestrade had shouted. He heard shuffling on the other side. Stepping back to see under the door, he could see a figure moving across the light back and forth. Pacing, maybe. "Come on, open up."

Finally, he heard Sherlock unlock the door. When it didn't open any more than a crack, Lestrade took it as an invitation to come in. So he did. He cringed when he walked into the flat. It was dingy and smelled like it could use a good airing out. He saw Sherlock draped across a dirty sofa. The dressing gown he wore was completely out of place in the room.

"What do you want, Lestrade?" Sherlock asked, not bothering to look at the other man.  
"Are you clean?" Lestrade asked flatly.  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I haven't showered yet today, if that's what you mean."  
Lestrade looked for a place to sit, but looking at the contents of the flat, he decided on standing. "You know it's not," he said.  
"Are you going to arrest me, Detective Inspector?" Sherlock asked, eyeing the other man. Challenging him.  
Lestrade held his stare for a long moment and sighed. "No, no I'm not. And you probably already knew that, you bastard." He looked away. Sherlock did too.

Neither of them said a word then. Lestrade busied himself with looking around the flat, taking in the mess in the kitchen, or, makeshift lab rather. There was half a loaf of moldy bread on the counter next to the kettle. Didn't make sense for someone like Sherlock Holmes to live in a place like this. Didn't make sense for a man like Sherlock Holmes to do drugs either. He imagined he'd find a slew drugs if he went door to door in the building. At the moment though, they weren't his concern. Sherlock was.

"You won't find anything here in the flat," Sherlock said, startling Lestrade.  
Lestrade turned to look at him. "Drugs aren't exactly my division, sunshine."  
Sherlock stayed quiet for a moment. What he had said had been a bluff.  
Lestrade settled his shoulder against the entryway to the kitchen and sitting room. Hands in his pockets.  
"Took you far too long to catch the killer," Sherlock pointed out, sitting up finally.  
Lestrade nodded. "Yeah, I know."  
"You should have -" Sherlock started.  
"I could have used your help," Lestrade interrupted. "I didn't ask for it though, because I couldn't. You're smart. You know that I can't ever, Sherlock, not if you're going to show up they way you did."  
Sherlock huffed, but remained silent.  
"If we were to try this, and as I'm not particularly happy with you at the moment, that's a giant 'if,' there would have to be some rules. First off, the drugs are gone."  
"The drugs are nothing, Lestrade," Sherlock said, already growing frustrated with the discussion. "I am a chemist; the dosages are measured precisely to my own body, to my own tolerances. It's not an addiction. I can stop anytime I'd like."  
Lestrade shook his head. "No, this is not an option, Sherlock. Not a suggestion. You want in on my crime scenes, then you get your act together. Simple as that."  
"And if the criminals of London decide to be boring? How will I occupy my mind then?" Sherlock asked.  
Lestrade had that look on his face, the one that said he really was as dim as Sherlock thought.  
"The drugs, Lestrade, occupy my mind. When the world becomes dreadfully tedious," he threw himself along the sofa once more for emphasis. "The drugs help keep my mind stimulated. Keeps it from going to mush like the rest of you."

Taking a moment to think about this, Lestrade said nothing at first. Sherlock, who had his arm across his eyes, wondered if perhaps he'd missed when Lestrade slipped out. He took a peek. Lestrade was still standing against the wall. His arms now crossed over his chest. It was another minute before he responded.

"I don't know," he said finally, looking at Sherlock. "But we'll figure it out, yeah?"  
Sherlock froze for a moment; he hadn't been expecting that response.  
"I won't pretend to understand what you mean, or why you need it, because you'd know I was lying anyway. But we can figure something out. When there isn't a case on, I'll do what I can to help you. But this is how it has to be, if you want to work with my team."

Sherlock closed his eyes. His hands rested, steepled over his chest. Lestrade waited a long time, even called out the other man's name, but Sherlock didn't so much as flinch. Giving in finally, he cleared the armchair of the papers and books and sat down. I must be mad, he thought. He hadn't planned on inviting Sherlock back onto his crime scenes. He didn't even have the authority to bring a civilian onto crime scenes. He'd come here to check on Sherlock. See for himself the other man was at the very least still breathing. The last two weeks had been spent drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, catching an hour or two of sleep on the sofa in his office, waiting for lab results, waiting for authorizations, waiting for something to happen. In those two weeks, he spent so much time worrying about Sherlock. Wishing he had sent Sherlock to the yard with another officer, so that he could sleep off whatever he was on and be kept out of trouble.

He'd been so angry though, so disappointed. What a waste. Sherlock was brilliant. A chemist he had said. There was something special about the young man, that was plain to see. But here he was, wasting his talents and ruining his body, his mind with drugs. Sherlock Holmes was the last person Lestrade ever thought he'd have to send away for being under the influence. He had wanted to call Sherlock early on, but he couldn't have. Not after how he had shown up. Someone would have said something, and he'd have his warrant card and weapon stripped from him. He worried though. Every day, he worried he'd done the wrong thing. Sherlock Holmes was an arrogant arse, absolutely, but he was young, and he obviously didn't follow the same social tendencies as most others.

He worried so much, he felt guilty for not giving Layla, the victim, his best efforts.

The shadows crept longer and longer across the room. Lestrade didn't notice though. He stared openly at the other man. Skinny, too skinny to be healthy, surely. His hair looked greasy and needed a cut. His raggedy gray t-shirt was stained blue, probably from whatever the hell was sitting in a glass jar on the kitchen table. His long, narrow, sock-covered feet rested on the arm of the dirty sofa. The expensive gown he was wearing didn't allow him to see much skin, but he found himself wondering whether, if he removed it, he would find any fine puncture marks along his lanky arms. His gaze drifted over to his face. His forehead wrinkled in concentration made him look older than he was. Lestrade suddenly longed to see his bright, clever eyes lit up with whatever he went through his mind when he knew something, had figured something out.

The sun had nearly set by the time Sherlock spoke again.

"I don't want to work with your team," he said slowly. He turned to look straight at Lestrade. "I want to work with you."

Lestrade walked quietly up the stairs to 221B. It was early, but he'd just finished up at the Yard. He was going home for a shower, shave, and a few hours sleep. He had sent most of his team home hours ago while he sat all night writing up reports in his office after they'd left the crime scene. The rest of the paper work could wait a while. He was in desperate need of more coffee, or actual rest, but he needed to stop by and check up on Sherlock and his new flatmate first. Doctor... John? That was just about all his tired brain could come up with at the moment.

As expected, Sherlock was up. By the looks of it though, he was ready to crash at any moment. Lestrade almost felt bad for dropping by, but curiosity got the better of him. He turned the arm chair closest to the kitchen around to face the sofa, where Sherlock lay, in his suit still.

"Where's your flatmate?" he asked after a while.  
"Gone to the market. Something about tea things," Sherlock said, eyes still closed.  
Lestrade nodded. "Last I heard, you were still looking. Where'd you find him?"  
"He found me."  
"Yeah, and?"  
"Since when is New Scotland Yard interested in my flatmates?"  
Lestrade rubbed at his eyes. Maybe he was too tired for this. "They're not. I am," he said tersely. "'Course, they might be interested if I were to call for an illegal weapons bust here at Baker Street."  
Sherlock swung his legs off the sofa and sat up. "Ah, caught on, have you? Not an idiot after all. Good to know."  
"Says the man who had to gaze after the good Doctor before he caught on himself." The effect of his retort was slightly lost behind the yawn and crack of his jaw.  
"My, my, Inspector. Are you jealous?" Sherlock asked, his eyebrow raised, daring Lestrade to answer.  
Lestrade leaned back in the chair, arms crossing his chest. "Should I be?"  
"Why are you here, Lestrade?" Sherlock asked rolling his neck back against the sofa. "I'll offer my statement at a more convenient time."  
"You show up to my crime scene with your new Doctor flatmate in tow," Lestrade started. "I want to know who he is."

Before Sherlock could answer, Doctor John Watson walked into the flat. Sherlock and Lestrade both staring at him as he fumbled with the grocery bag in his hand.

"'Morning, Detective Inspector," John said. "I've got tea, if you'd like some. Or coffee."  
Lestrade shook his head. "No. Thanks, but I was just on my way out."  
"Oh, did I interrupt something? I could -" John had started.  
"You haven't. Garrett was indeed on his way out," Sherlock said, walking over to his arm chair.

Lestrade shot him a glare that went unnoticed. He stood up and righted the chair he'd been occupying. John nodded and walked into the kitchen to put away the groceries. Lestrade had been nearly out the door when he turned to say something to Sherlock. Sherlock though was watching John, following his movements as he unpacked the bag. Lestrade nodded again, to himself mostly.

"Get some rest, you two. It's been an awfully long night," he said as walked out.

* * *

This is my first story based on Sherlock. It is not Brit-picked. If you leave a review, and I hope that you will, I hope you'll be kind enough to remember this.


	2. Chapter 2

Lestrade keeps himself busy during the time Sherlock is dead.

* * *

There were few things Lestrade was quite sure of; since meeting Sherlock Holmes, nearly ten years ago now, the number of things Lestrade was quite sure of had dwindled at a staggering pace. Sherlock Holmes made just about anything seem possible, no matter how improbable it may seem. Two years ago, the one thing Lestrade was quite sure of, absolutely, without a doubt, he had questioned. And it had cost him. Not just him, no, of course not. Sherlock's death affected so many people. There was Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Mycroft, _John_.

Lestrade, who had questioned Sherlock when he had needed those who believed in him, had failed to protect him the only way he could. By doing so, even for the that brief time, he had forfeited his right to _grieve_ for Sherlock Holmes. At the funeral, he sat two rows behind those who had remained firm believers, whose belief had never wavered, would never, despite what the papers might be saying... _Sherlock's family_. He was quite sure, especially when John wouldn't bother to look him in the eye as he offered his condolences, that he would not have been welcomed.

Although he couldn't grieve for the loss of Sherlock Holmes, wouldn't allow himself to, and while he would never be able to prove to Sherlock that he _did_ believe in him, he made it his duty to clear his name in the public eye. To ensure everyone knew what Lestrade should have never questioned. Even more important than that though, was the promise he had made to himself, and to his friend, to look after those for whom Sherlock had died. He was quite sure that he would have wanted that.

For more than two years, he kept to his duties. It had been difficult in the beginning; each visit to Baker Street to spend the afternoon with Mrs. Hudson lead to tears. He'd had to hold the dear old woman so often, let her sob into his shirt. He was quite sure that their afternoons were the only time she allowed herself to cry for her boy. He'd wanted nothing more than to cry right alongside her.

Doctor Watson's had been an even more difficult barrier to break down. He had wanted very little to do with anyone for a long time, even less to do with Lestrade. Every unanswered phone call, every text message that received no reply, every rap at the door of 221B that was met with silence left Lestrade wanting to drive his fists into something solid, unforgiving. He couldn't do that, not when John would need someone soon, not when he had boxes full of old cases he had worked with Sherlock to validate.

It was months later, when he'd finally worked his way through every one of Sherlock's cases, every side note checked and double checked, had taken them to his superiors, had waited for a separate team to follow up on his references before finally the Metropolitan Police issued a statement to the press regarding Sherlock Holmes that exonerated the man of the crimes he had been accused. Towards the end of the statement, it was also noted that Gregory Lestrade, who worked with Holmes on a number of cases, had been reinstated as Detective Inspector.

Lestrade was glad to have his job back. It would be a welcome distraction now that he didn't have to concentrate his efforts on clearing Sherlock's name. When Donovan asked if he was going to the old copper bar down the street to join the rest of their newly reassembled team for a celebratory pint, he declined. Told her he had some other business to take of before starting work the following day. Watching her head out with Anderson, Lestrade pulled out his mobile.

 _ **Fancy a pint? The usual at 6pm? - GL  
Yeah, okay. - JW**_

Lestrade had been surprised at the quick response, but had been even more surprised when John had actually shown up at the pub. After just one pint though, John was making excuses to leave; Lestrade didn't try to keep him any longer. The conversation had been awkward and stilted throughout, and he was quite sure John was still, would always be, angry at him for not believing in Sherlock Holmes. That was fine though. This was a start.

"It's good, his name's finally been cleared. Not that anyone who truly cared about him ever needed an official statement to know the truth," John said, pulling on his jacket, eyes staring down at the sticky floor. Lestrade looked down into his empty glass. It didn't take a Detective Inspector to understand what John was saying. Renewed shame settled over him under the weight of the good Doctor's words. John cleared his throat, Lestrade looked up to meet his eyes once more. "But it's good all the same. Thank you."

Things went on, after Sherlock Holmes' death. Things were very different, but they went on, as things tend to do. Mostly, Lestrade was unsure where he fit. It had taken a while, but he had his job back. It had taken even longer, but everyone had started to feel _normal_ again. Mrs. Hudson no longer wept on his shoulder when he stopped by during his lunch break. Sometimes she would tear up at a memory, but mostly she smiled and laughed at how utterly mad Sherlock had been.

With John, things had started slowly. They met a few times for a pint, but before long, John would make his excuses to leave. Then, Mrs. Hudson had started inviting John down for tea whenever Lestrade would visit. It took Mrs. Hudson's constant tuts and disapproving looks whenever the clank of a spoon on a saucer rang out loud throughout the kitchen before they started to fill the room with conversation instead. The first time John could say Sherlock's name out loud to Lestrade, they'd been at the kitchen table in 221B eating dinner from takeaway boxes. The night had been awkward all around – John not having had any guests in the months since Barts, and Lestrade not having stepped foot into the flat before with the knowledge that Sherlock never would again.

It was oddly familiar, everything exactly where it had been before. But, it had been heartbreaking too. Lestrade did his best to push that down. Being invited up was quite a jump from where he and John had been months before. Lestrade cringed at his choice of words. However hard it may be for him, he reminded himself, it was even worse for John. He had to remember that.

The night had ended with John breaking down, saying things to Lestrade he had kept to himself all this time. Had admitted that he was still angry with the other man, had admitted to having fantasied that it had been Lestrade, not Sherlock, who had been on the roof of the hospital that day. Had admitted that more often than not though, he wished it had been he who had jumped.

Lestrade could understand that. On his worst nights, when he couldn't keep his mind quiet, laying in bed with nothing but the darkness and his thoughts around him, Lestrade would wonder what it would feel like to stand where Sherlock had stood in his last minutes. Those perverse thoughts were meant only for those darkest nights though. He didn't tell John that he understood; John wouldn't want to hear that. He also didn't tell John that those same nights, when he could hardly bear it all anymore, he hated John, too. For behaving like he'd been the only one to lose Sherlock Holmes.

But he did listen to John. Listened to everything the man had to say, to get off his chest, and when he was done Lestrade simply reached across the table and laid his hand on John's arm. Letting him know it was fine, everything would be fine. Hoping he could believe it enough to convince the other man who sat with tears streaking down his face.

It wasn't long after that night that John had met Mary and soon moved out of Baker Street. They still met up for a pint when their schedules permitted.

Mrs. Hudson had weekly nights out with her Ladies Club now, too, and visited her sister more often. Though they never missed their weekly afternoons together. Lestrade had reached out to Mycroft a number of times, but always, he insisted he was fine, and asked that Lestrade not worry about him. Molly had been surprisingly strong from the beginning, seemed to bury herself in her work for a while, but she always seemed well enough whenever Lestrade saw her. They mostly kept in touch through work, but they'd gone out for coffee on a few occasions, too. From the beginning, she'd been so kind to him and assured him that if he ever needed someone to talk to, she'd be happy to listen. He'd been very grateful for those visits.

Lestrade had become accustomed to thinking they were all "starting to move on." But actually, before he knew it, it had been more than two years now since Sherlock had died. The people he'd promised to take care of didn't need him anymore. They weren't just starting to move on; Molly, John and Mary, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, they were getting on. With their lives, with their careers. John had even mentioned the idea of proposing to Mary soon.

Nothing would ever be the same, he knew, but he wondered whether he was getting on as well as the others. He just couldn't shake the feeling that he was so far behind in _being fine_. Like they had all decided to get on together and simply forgot to tell him. He was dragging himself along behind them, trying to catch up and he couldn't. He wasn't quite sure he could ever catch up. All he was quite sure of was that Sherlock had gone and left him behind first, and that he missed him terribly.

"Those things will kill you," Lestrade heard a familiar voice say one evening.  
He hesitated for a few moments, deciding whether what he had just heard was real. Finally, cigarette between his lips, lighter in his hand, he groaned out, "Oh you bastard."

Sherlock Holmes had always made the impossible seem possible. In life and in death, it seemed. Lestrade wasn't quite sure how it was possible that Sherlock was standing here before him, but he didn't care; he was just glad to see him again. He was grateful to just wrap his arms around the younger man.

So glad, so grateful, in fact, he couldn't muster the the heart to be too annoyed when Sherlock got his name wrong. _Bastard indeed._

* * *

This is my first story based on Sherlock. It is not Brit-picked. If you leave a review, and I hope that you will, I hope you'll be kind enough to remember this.


	3. Chapter 3

Lestrade finds himself at 221B after the wedding, and again after "The Abominable Bride," when Sherlock's returned to Baker Street.

* * *

Sherlock walked in to 221B and immediately began removing his suit. He dropped his tie at the door, tossed his jacket onto the sofa. He hung his waist coat on the bathroom doorknob. He walked into his bedroom and shut the door behind him, kicking his shoes off at the foot of the bed. Not bothering with the rest of his clothing, he sat on the bed and stared at nothing at all. He was exhausted.

Lestrade knew, of course he knew, that Sherlock would leave eventually. For a while, he thought maybe the man had actually been enjoying himself, had been enjoying the people closest to him enjoy themselves, at the least. John hadn't done a runner, that was good. Mary looked lovely in her gown. They'd arrested the photographer. Sherlock had played beautifully. For a wedding involving Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, everything had gone surprisingly well actually.

But then Sherlock had gone and disappeared. _Off to Baker Street probably_ , Lestrade figured. He'd stick around for a bit longer, have a dance with the bride and Mrs. Hudson. Afterward, he'd go off to check on him. Can't have been a very easy day; wouldn't want to talk anyway. Never does. But he'll be wanting company sooner or later. And someone to make him tea, the lazy bastard.

It was another hour before Lestrade was able to slip away. He didn't bother making any goodbyes, bride and groom would hardly notice anyway. The others were too busy enjoying themselves. They wouldn't notice either. When he arrived at Baker Street, he saw the flat was dark. He was sure he'd find Sherlock sitting in his chair, dressing gown on, plucking away at his violin. This was a danger night, if there ever was one. As he made his way up the stairs, he really began to worry. He couldn't hear a peep coming from the flat.

He had his keys in his hand, ready to unlock the door, but he found it unlocked. Pushing open the door and stepping in, he nearly slipped on the tie on the floor. He picked it up. Lestrade turned on the light and saw the jacket thrown over the sofa. He walked into the kitchen and could see Sherlock's waistcoat on the floor in front of the bathroom.

Upon opening the bedroom door, Lestrade released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Sherlock was asleep, his legs dangling at the foot of the bed. Lestrade felt sorry for him, for what he'd gone through the last couple of months. He'd done it all with little complaint, but it was obvious it was taking a toll on him.

Lestrade walked over to the bed and gently shook the younger man's shoulder. "Sherlock," he said. "Come on, let's get you into bed properly."

Sherlock rolled onto his side and pulled his legs up. "Go away, Gary," Lestrade barely heard.  
He pulled down the sheets and pulled up on Sherlock's elbow, trying to get him to move up. "Into bed, I said."  
Sherlock groaned but did as he was told. "Is this how you are on all your dates? It's no wonder you declined on a plus one."

 _Such a bastard_ , Greg thought. Even like this, feeling like crap no doubt. He's still an absolute berk.

"Yeah, well, it wouldn't have been much of a date if I had to drop them to come check up you," he said when Sherlock was settled. "Go to sleep."

Sherlock mumbled something, but Lestrade wasn't able to make it out. When Sherlock didn't repeat himself and his breathing had evened out, he left him to sleep.

It was early still, but Lestrade was rather knackered himself now. That short adrenaline rush was wearing off quickly. He wasn't really keen on leaving Sherlock on his own. Maybe it wasn't a danger night. Maybe they were past those now. Still, he didn't want Sherlock to wake up in a few hours and find himself alone, well and truly.

Lestrade toed off his shoes and removed his tie and jacket. He took his and Sherlock's and draped them over the arm rest of the sofa before plopping himself down for the night. Before he knew it, he'd knocked out before he knew it.

Greg took the stairs up to 221B two at a time, as usual. He didn't bother with a courtesy knock before he entered; his heart pounded too loudly, too quickly in his chest. The anger he'd been pushing down since he'd gotten word, had been overshadowed by fear and worry, was suddenly thrumming along with his quickened pulse, just below his skin.

Sherlock, he saw, was sitting in his armchair, his violin case open at this feet. His pose was a familiar one, one Lestrade had seen a hundred times, at least. Secretly, he loved catching Sherlock like this. Quiet, calm. Watching Sherlock was like watching a hummingbird – he never stopped, was always going faster than the rest of them. You couldn't help but notice the rapidity at which Sherlock existed. Likewise, Lestrade often found it just as hypnotizing to watch Sherlock like this – like catching a hummingbird at rest, being still. You have to appreciate the moment, appreciate the creature for simply _being_.

And Lestrade always did. He enjoyed catching Sherlock while he was like that, to _see_ him without the worry of being met with a scathing glare or a wicked tongue. To notice all the things that you might miss if you only ever saw Sherlock going at top speed, humming about the rest of the world. Lestrade was most appreciative of Sherlock when he could see him like this, just _being, existing_.

Today though, he couldn't be distracted by it. He slammed the door shut behind him, but as he suspected, Sherlock didn't so much as flinch at the loud bang. Lestrade walked closer to the other man, paced twice in front of him, giving him a moment to gather his thoughts.

"REDBEARD!" Lestrade shouted. Sherlock blinked open, eyes immediately alert.  
"What is it, Lestrade, what's happened?" he said, jumping to his feet.

Lestrade paused a moment. Hoping beyond hope that Sherlock would realize why he was there.

When Sherlock just stood there, blinking at him, he said, "You shot that man." His voice quiet, but like steel. "You killed him, and just hopped on a plane to God knows where to do God knows what. You were going to leave, did leave, without saying a word? I only just found out now, from your bloody brother." Lestrade's voice had risen, he was doing his best to keep his wits about him.

Sherlock turned away from him, walking over to the window and looking out at the street below.

"You left me behind again, Sherlock," Lestrade said without really meaning to. Saying the words aloud though, added weight to the action itself. Making it mean more somehow. He shook his head in disbelief. Not yet a year since returning from his death, and here they were again.  
"Did my dear brother explain to you why I had to stop Magnussen?" Sherlock asked. He didn't wait for an answer. "He wasn't going to stop until he had what he wanted; he would have torn John and Mary apart to get to me, would have done whatever he could to me just to get to my brother. I couldn't allow that to happen." Sherlock turned his head to look at the other man. What he saw standing there was the same man who had stood at his grave. He turned back to the window.  
"No, I didn't know any of that," Lestrade said quietly. "I'm glad everyone's safe now, but that doesn't change anything. What you did today..."

Sherlock sighed. "What I did today, was sit on a plane for twenty minutes before returning to Baker Street. It's hardly important now, what _is_ import-"

"Not important?" Lestrade said in disbelief. "It's important to me, you bastard; _you_ are important to me. Am I really so insignificant that you can't see that? You couldn't bother with a text even? Bloody hell, Sherlock, you got on a plane and left, not knowing if you'd even be coming back, and couldn't be bothered to say a word to me yourself. Just like the last time."  
"The 'last time,'" Sherlock air quoted. "I couldn't have said anything to you, it would have been a risk."  
"You told John," Lestrade countered. "Maybe not directly, but something you said to him, the way he acted at times, like he _knew_. He did know."  
Sherlock groaned. Lestrade was becoming overly sentimental about all of this, it was complicating matters that he had no wish to think about himself. "Oh, what does it matter, Lestrade? Honestly," he said. "It shouldn't matter at all because none of it was real."  
"IT WAS REAL TO ME!" Lestrade shouted before he could stop himself, not giving a damn how pathetic it made him sound. Sherlock was looking at him now. "You died; you were gone for two years. Don't you dare make it sound so _tedious_. You were gone and everything about it was real for me." He took a breath. "For all of us," he added.

Sherlock tensed in realization. All of this, right here, wasn't just about Magnussen, not even just about The Fall. This was about _everything_ , from the first day he'd walked onto Lestrade's crime scene. This was about _them_. He thought for a moment, about their relationship, looking for the thread that was quickly unraveling before him. _Why exactly is Lestrade here, right now?_

 _Oh_ , he thought. Sherlock had always known where he fit into Lestrade's life. Lestrade had always made it quite clear, without ever having to actually say, where he held Sherlock. Apparently, Lestrade was daft enough not to not have realized where he fit into his.

"You've never asked why I had to jump," he said. "John demanded to be told everything, every detail. Why didn't you?"  
Lestrade shook his head. "I didn't have to," he said. "I talked to Mycroft; I filled in all the things he wasn't saying and did what you do – I deduced. You had to jump because John Watson was in danger. That was all I needed to know."  
"Wrong, as usual," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "I jumped because if I hadn't, Moriarty's men, three snipers, were not only going to kill John, but Mrs. Hudson and you as well." Sherlock said the words as if they were nothing, as if they didn't mean something more.

Lestrade opened his mouth to say something, but closed it. He composed his thoughts before replying. "Not Molly?" he asked confused. "Mrs. Hudson makes sense, but a third on me? I would think, if there was a third, it would have been Molly."  
Sherlock chuckled. "Our dear Doctor Hooper was my secret weapon. She was nothing more than a discarded pawn to Moriarty by that point. His mistake was mine to capitalize on, and so I did. She helped set up the illusion of the fall, but I jumped to spare the three of you."

Lestrade smiled. It really was genius, no outsider would have suspected Molly's involvement. His brow furrowed as he remembered the times he had spent with Molly, when she had been so kind to him.

"That makes sense, then," he said with a sad little laugh. "She handled it all better than I had expected. She knew, and so did Mycroft. They must think I'm a fool for checking up on them so often."  
Sherlock shook his head. "I assure you, they don't. You were kind to them. Molly only ever meant to be the same for you."

Lestrade took a few moments to think about what Sherlock had just told him. He felt a pressure start to build at his temples. He'd said there were three snipers, one trained on him, and that he'd jumped to save them. He scrubbed his face with both hands, wondering how he'd gotten to this point. He sighed.

"I once said to John, that you were a great man," Lestrade started. "And that if we were very, very lucky, you might even be a good one." He looked directly at Sherlock, catching his eye before he spoke again. "And you are a good man, Sherlock Holmes. It's John Watson who made you a good man, and it was for John Watson you jumped from that building."  
Sherlock made a noise of disagreement. "There were three, they were going to-"  
"If there had only been two," Lestrade interrupted. "On Mrs. Hudson and myself, you'd have figured out another way. You couldn't take that risk with John involved. That's not a _bad_ thing, Sherlock.  
"As for not asking questions, I didn't think it was my place. Truth be told, I'm not sure I even want to know everything you went through while you were gone. It was never because I didn't care," he said honestly. "If you ever do want to tell me, I'll listen. You've always known you could come to me, even after everything, I hope you haven't forgotten that."

This was something they didn't talk about, Lestrade found himself struggling to find words for the things he wanted to say. His anger having dwindled away at Sherlock's confession, he felt his breath coming faster now, could feel his heart racing again for different reasons. "Knowing now, that I had even a small part in you doing what you did, in what you had to go through. It was awful enough before..."

Lestrade turned around and sat in Sherlock's chair, his back to the other man still standing by the window. "God Sherlock, I'm so sorry."

Sherlock froze, his eyes searching the room for a moment unsure of what he was expected to do. He finally settled his gaze back on the other man. He couldn't see, but Lestrade's hunched shoulders, the muffled sounds coming from behind his hand where he tried to keep quiet... Sherlock walked closer and saw that, while he was not crying, his body trembled with the need to do so. He reached his hand out unsure, and placed it on the other man's shoulder, to comfort him, but he only sobbed harder, his eyes tightly closed. He looked around again for some clue as to what he should do. This wasn't his area. He wasn't the sort to deal with things like this, this was John's area. This is what Lestrade did for _him_ ; it was Lestrade who offered comfort, reassurance. Like a brick, it hit Sherlock. For a moment he reeled back at the revelation.

Sherlock crouched next to the armchair, his hand never leaving Lestrade's shoulder, willing himself to be some sort of comfort to him. Lestrade, the brave man who was sat in front of him biting his palm to keep from crying, was _grieving_ for the first time; for everything they had all had to endure.

When finally, he was able to quiet himself, Lestrade turned to look at Sherlock, his eyes red and glistening. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. For," he didn't know where to start. "Not believing in you from the beginning. If I had, maybe we could have done... something. For not being able to help John any more than I did." He was breathless. There was so much he was sorry for, but he couldn't form the words. "For these," he added, reaching out and nearly touching the light skin peeking from behind Sherlock's shirt. The scars; the worst of which he kept hidden from even John. "God, each one of these," Lestrade let his hand drop before he could touch the skin, unsure he could do so without breaking down once again.

"None of that matters now. There was nothing more you could have done; you did everything that you could while I was away. John is fine, as am I," Sherlock tried to reassure him.  
Lestrade shook his head, "Wasn't enough though. Not for John at least, he sat here for ages, angry and alone. He watched you jump, and _I_ was angry at _him_ for having been the last one to see you, to talk to you. He needed you, and I couldn't fix it. I let you both down."

Sherlock took a breath, thinking, reading between the words Lestrade was saying.

"You did everything I expected of you, Detective Inspector Lestrade," he tried again. "Nothing else matters because none of it was real."  
"It was though!" Lestrade said loudly, scrambling out of the chair to pace around the sitting room. Sherlock stood up, confused and unsure.  
"You were dead. It seemed impossible that John and Mrs. H would ever be okay again without you. But it's like nothing's changed, like nothing they went through meant anything. You were just going to do it again. You can't, Sherlock. It's only _just_ gotten easier." He wasn't even sure the things he was saying made sense anymore. But they were all he had.  
"And you, Lestrade?" Sherlock said after a moment, giving the other man a chance to collect himself. "Were you 'okay?'"  
"Yes," Lestrade answered too quickly. He sighed. "No, but I had to be, for their sake. Someone had to be there for them. I did my best."  
"I knew that you would," Sherlock said. He moved closer to the other man, just one step, giving him space enough to breath, but enough to know Sherlock was there with him. "It had to be John, that day at Barts that day," he stated.

Lestrade didn't look at him, hadn't since he had stopped talking. Sherlock explained, "It had to be John because I knew, eventually, he would start to question me. I knew he would sit here, angry and alone, asking himself too many questions and realize I had lied to him.

"But you, Gregory Lestrade, are, have always been, my constant. A bit boring, maybe," he smiled softly. Lestrade was watching him now, listening. "But consistent. All those years ago, you believed me when I said I would stop the drugs. When I betrayed your trust, you stayed, ignored my protests, and took care of me. Each and every time I've betrayed your trust, you've stayed by my side. I knew, no matter what you may have thought of me at the time, that you would stand beside those I was leaving behind, and take care of them. Just as you did.

"You would have seen me jump, and you would have pieced together my reasons sooner or later, as you did, and believed that I was a good man for having done it. I couldn't have that. Any sort of sentimentality would have clouded my mind during the mission, and that could not happen. I am, as I always have been, unworthy of the faith and trust you place in me. But I want it all the same; like I want John's praise and approval.

"John, I knew, would eventually stop believing in me. You, however, always believe I'll do the right thing, no matter how many times I've given you reason to doubt. It would have hurt you too greatly to have been there, and I didn't want that. So, you see, Lestrade, it could not have been you. I had hoped to spare you both, had hoped you would both figure out the truth on your own. It seems I miscalculated just how slow you all can be, and caused more hurt than I had intended. For that, _I am truly sorry_."

Sherlock took two more steps closer and wrapped his arms around Lestrade. He buried his face into the other man's neck, allowing himself to be comforted as well. Verbalizing all the things he had kept to himself for so long left him feeling exhausted. But Lestrade needed him now, so he would hold on as long as he would need to. He held Lestrade close, tight, like Lestrade had held him in the parking garage that night he returned. Simply grateful to be able to do so. After a moment, Lestrade returned the embrace. His body relaxing, his breaths syncing to those of the other man. He gripped tighter, rumpling Sherlock's jacket. He felt relieved, to just stand there with Sherlock like this.

The sitting room of 221B Baker Street was quiet. More quiet than it had probably ever been. The only sounds coming from the late evening traffic on the street below. Lestrade stood stock still as they pulled apart finally. Sherlock could see he was doing his best to keep from allowing the unshed tears in his eyes to fall. He didn't step away, couldn't. He wanted Lestrade to know he was there with him.

"Every time John would say something, every bloody theory Anderson came up with, I wanted to believe them, but I couldn't. It would only make every other day you were gone that much more worse." Lestrade remembered all the times he'd dared to consider the possibility. Only to be left with an even greater emptiness.  
"I know," Sherlock said. "I'm sorry."

"And today?" Lestrade asked after a long time. He was angry still, and confused, hurt, and very tired now. Mostly though, he wondered if their shared embrace, their shared confessions meant to Sherlock what they meant to him. Sherlock was still here, after all, he hadn't left. Maybe not because of him, but maybe now Sherlock realized how much he meant to him.  
Sherlock sighed, his eyes never leaving Lestrade's. "Today, was pure selfishness. I didn't want to have to say goodbye and mean it." Lestrade took that as a declaration; for an understanding at the least.  
Lestrade nodded. "You can't leave me behind, sunshine," he said. "Not ever again; not without a word. That's how this has to be, whatever it is."  
Sherlock hesitated. "I can't promise that, you know."  
"You may be a good man, Sherlock Holmes, but lie to me anyway," Lestrade shrugged. Smiling softly, sadly, but with a renewed light in his eyes. "I'd believe you all the same."

* * *

This is my first story based on Sherlock. It is not Brit-picked. If you leave a review, and I hope that you will, I hope you'll be kind enough to remember this.


End file.
